Read Between the Lines
by Sylvia Blackwood
Summary: John can't take living with Sherlock anymore and disappears. Sherlock feels lost and confused until he happened upon a certain fictional novel everyone he knew owned. This story is combined with a retelling of The Little Mermaid (Very Abridged). Set after the Fall. M/M, H/C, fluff, lime, no-lemon. Shaken, not stirred.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I like retelling fairy tales, and this one kept rattling around in my brain, begging to be written. However, I couldn't figure a way to make this a full Little Mermaid story. The inspiration was just not there. I wrote an outline, and jumped around writing the scenes that were clear in my mind. But I still had gaping holes in the plot that my brain just didn't want to fill. So I took the story into a different direction, and this is the end result. Enjoy!

* * *

Read Between the Lines

John felt like something was terribly wrong, but he could not figure out what. He soon just passed it off as mere guilt for refusing to accompany Sherlock on yet another chase. The weather was unusually bad, and his psychosomatic limp was acting up, despite the fact that Sherlock was back and just as sharp as old times. But John could not forget his pain. Whether the pain was mental (like his limp), developmental (he figured at one point that he could be developing rheumatism), or emotional (three years' worth of feeling empty), John was not well. As such, he didn't have the spirit to chase after Sherlock like he normally would have. On the outside, he looked normal to everyone who knew him. On the inside, he was a mess.

Sherlock's death weighed very heavily on the blogger's heart, and to see him now just makes it worse. To see Sherlock act as though those three years hadn't even happened was a nail into the soldier's wounded heart. Sure, John showed him how angry he was at his friend's return by punching him straight in the face. But several cups of tea later, and thorough explanations given, John couldn't help but forgive the man. Yet he felt that's all it was. Sherlock does something, and John is the one who has to apologize, show remorse, show humility, and even forgive. Sherlock would never do any of those things.

This evening, John had stayed late at the clinic. He was finishing up his inventory when he received a text from Mycroft. That in itself couldn't be good. John felt his heart stop as he opened the message _Sherlock is at St. Bart's hospital. He's unconscious from blood loss due to a bullet in the shoulder. He's stable, but you'd better get down here quick. – MH_

John rushed as fast as he could to the hospital thinking, 'Not again! I can't lose him again!' During those years alone, John had come to terms with how much the Consulting Detective had meant to him, and it was well beyond the levels of mere friendship. It's true that he would do anything for the man, but he did not want to be treated like an obedient pet, which is how he currently felt around the genius. Someone to sniff out the blood, and praise his master. The thought made John cringe that that was all he was really good for. He wanted to come with Sherlock, but it was this fact that kept him from going. Now he regretted not being there if Sherlock getting shot had been the outcome.

Once he arrived at the hospital, he didn't even need to ask where Sherlock's room was if the string of cops and Mycroft's men were any indication. Also, he could hear Sherlock's voice coming loudly through the door. "This is all John's fault!" He heard. This stopped him from entering the room just as it also nearly stopped his heart to hear such a harsh accusation. He listened on as the man continued what was obviously the middle of a rant. "He's no friend. He's changed. The old John would not question the case, he would follow, so that he could write his silly little blog. But the John now is a useless doppelganger who could care less about the case. He should just get over his silly little funk and realize that it's pointless for him to work at a clinic when chasing the criminals is the key to 'life'! They don't even pay him that much, yet he insists on going. If he was there tonight, then this whole business could have been avoided. He's never around when I truly need him, and he gets so sentimental about everything else. Why can't he learn that sentiment is a weakness, and is liable to get you into trouble…" The ranting continued, but John refused to hear anymore. Useless. That's what Sherlock called him.

John was by no means weak. Yes, the past few years were hard on him, but he never went so far as to contemplate suicide. Now that was being weak. Thinking that pain is so bad that you just want to end it, well life is pain. Being a soldier taught him that. Pain helps us remember that we are alive. But to Sherlock… can he even feel? He says his body is transport. Just a shell designed to keep his brilliant mind working.

If John was useless, then John had just the word to describe Sherlock: Selfish. He always wanted to be right. He always wanted others to be impressed by him. He wanted to make those who make fun of him uncomfortable. He makes decisions for the two of them, and they're not always wise. He even calls John's job a joke because John is not running at his beck and call like he used to. That's what this whole rant was about… John's life is not about Sherlock anymore.

John opened the door and calmly walked in. The room fell quiet in an instant. Without saying a word, John crossed over to the bed and shined his pen light into Sherlock's eyes, testing their reaction. After looking around a bit, he backed away and looked at him. "You're on some heavy duty pain killers, but nothing that would induce hallucinations. So I can safely assume that you're lucid enough to be honest about what you said. Well Sherlock, you seemed to be just fine without my help for three whole years, so I don't see why this time would have been really different. You don't really need someone to help you, since you can figure everything out on your own, so I fail to see how any of this is my fault. Or should I assume that you only wanted me to be there to praise you for saving the day like some common hero worshiper, and that would have avoided you doing something stupid and getting yourself shot. Or you're mad because I wasn't there to 'take care' of the shooter before anyone was hurt."

The room was still silent as all eyes continued to stare at the doctor. "You claimed that I was never there when you truly needed me. Enlighten me Sherlock, when have you truly needed me? You said yourself that you don't have friends. And the select few friends you do have, you jumped off a building in order to protect them. Or did you? For all I know, you did it to serve your own purposes. You'd have an excuse to be able to tail Moriarty's band of thugs, and pick them off one by one in the shadows of the night. But you wouldn't have been able to do that if you allowed the snipers to shoot. And for three years, you've kept silent, and then all of a sudden you're back from the dead. You really expect things to go back to normal? It's not sentiment, it's logic. I had to move on with my life 'without' you Sherlock. Now that you're back you wonder why I don't follow you the way I used to. I'll tell you. You obviously don't 'need' my assistance. So I might as well use my time to help those who truly need me."

John turned to leave while he still held a strong stoic face, but inside, he was shouting at himself for being so rash. He took two steps before Sherlock called out to him, "John, wait!" John stopped, but didn't turn around. "I don't… I didn't…"

"You didn't mean what you said? Of course you did. You're very good at telling me exactly what I want to hear when it suits you. Perhaps you should just find some other lapdog to entertain your ego. I'm passed all that. Blame me all you want Sherlock. I just don't care anymore." With that, John left the room, ignoring the other people staring at him.

No doubt Sherlock figured out his veiled threat. He just couldn't take living with that man any more. Sherlock has no idea how much he has destroyed him. John felt torn saying those words, and they weren't completely true. Sherlock was very much a part of his world, but the man obviously will never understand what that means. He'd probably fake his own death again and again. John could not bear to think about how much more Sherlock will do to him for the sake of an experiment or the case.

As he walked, he thought about how Sherlock has manipulated him over and over again. In the Baskerville case, he needed John to forgive him so that he would drink the spike the coffee with the supposedly drugged sugar. Sherlock was a terrific actor, so how could John believe anything he says anymore when he was expressing any kind of emotion. The man was a machine.

* * *

As John reached Baker Street, his mind was made up. He entered the flat, and went straight to his room to pack his few belongings. In the past three years he'd earned enough to pay off his debt and have some left aside for savings. When you had no social life, and all you did was work, it comes as no surprise that he'd be able to support himself now.

It took him only three hours to pack up his belongings. He then called Sarah, who was now his best friend, "Hey Sarah, I've got a huge favor to ask. Could I stay at your place for a week? I'm moving out of Baker street. I'm calling a storage facility to hold my things for a month, while I search for a new place, but I just cannot stay here any longer."

"John. Of course you can stay here, but I think we will need to have a serious talk. What could have happened that you make this kind of spur of the moment decision?"

John thought for a moment, "This place is just not home anymore."

"Alright. I'll leave the door open for you. But you owe me a detailed explanation over a glass of wine later."

John smiled. "Of course. And breakfast in bed for the duration." They said their farewells, and John proceeded to call the storage company to pick up his things. He was glad he had Sarah in his life. They both knew there wasn't anything romantic about their relationship. He regarded her as the sister he never had, since Harry was more or less estranged from him. He wonders that maybe that's why he never went all the way with her. He respected her too much for that. Without her shoulder to cry on, and without her smiles, John doubts he would have been able to survive the last few years. And unlike everyone else, she knows _everything_.

Carting all the boxes by the door, he went over to break the news to Mrs. Hudson. He knocked on her door and waited for her to answer. "John dear. What's wrong?"

"Just what we've feared. I can't stay here with him."

Mrs. Hudson is the only other person who knew John's real attachments, and she was expecting something like this to happen since Sherlock came back from the dead. She looked at him with sympathy before pulling him into a hug. John returned it without knowing what else to say. Mrs. Hudson on the other hand, did. "It's alright dear. It's going to be alright. Although I feel for the state of my walls, and I better start worrying about the floors and ceilings now, I understand. Don't worry about the deposit dear. I'll take care of it. And just remember that this place will always be here, if you want to come back."

John held her tighter, and only let go when he heard the doorbell ring. The boxes were loaded onto the truck, and John hailed a taxi. Taking one last look around to make sure he didn't forget anything, John whispered goodbye to the building that had sheltered him through the best and the worst times of his life.

Getting into the taxi with two suitcases, he headed for Sarah's.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock felt cold. He couldn't understand why. Nothing in his mind palace was useful at the moment since he was still under the effects of the drugs. He didn't know what he was saying or thinking. He vaguely recalled John being around, but he wondered if that might have been a dream. Either way, the only thing he could clearly remember was the look of disappointment on John's face. And Sherlock had a feeling he was the one who put it there. It wasn't the usual "Bit not good" look, this was the face of a man who looked as though the purpose of living had been sucked out of him. Sherlock wanted to explain, but he was too thrown off by that look. He'd seen it often enough when he spied on Baker Street. Just to see if John was well. That face… he couldn't stand that face of utter defeat. To everyone else, it was a blank expression. To Sherlock, it was a regiment of torturous thoughts and sorrowful memories. He hasn't seen that look since he returned. But now… He was afraid of the confrontation he will face when he got home. John could keep a grudge for eternity if he wanted to, and it seems as though this one will be worse than the others he's faced before.

Honestly, Sherlock just wanted his friend back. Yes he knew he was selfish, but John has always been the friend he's always wanted. Someone who was not afraid of him, someone who accepts him despite everything, and someone who he could enjoy the stranger things in life with. But he knew that he screwed things up when it took so long to rid the world of Moriarty's group of followers. John did move on, and this John was only a shadow of the man who he knew as his friend. Sherlock missed those days when John would yell at him for using all the milk and not buying more, or when he would demand he ate something or had to sleep. Since Sherlock returned, it was as though John was dancing around him, trying to avoid him as much as possible. That didn't sit well with Sherlock. John had refused to go with him several times to the cases, and that both infuriated him and made him sad.

Sherlock didn't know how to fix this, and that scared him. It actually scared him, because for the first time, he was not sure of his actions, and he ended up getting himself shot. He was mad, and he never really did know when to keep his mouth shut. Now… the only thought running on repeat through his mind was, 'This is not good. This is really not good.'

* * *

Sherlock was running on auto pilot when he finally was allowed to go home. Even he could tell what awaited for him inside, but he was actually praying that he was wrong. As he slowly made his way up the stairs, the echoing creek of the wood was the only accompaniment to the silence that surrounded him. He reached the landing, but then he automatically continued upwards. The steps groaning under his weight as though he were an unwelcoming presence. When he reached the door, he didn't even need to knock, for the door was left open. Sherlock felt like he was looking into a void. A vortex of nothingness. In a way, it was accurate, for there was a lack of John in there. Not just the person, but the trace. The evidence of the man who made this room his own for the past few years. Now there was just… nothing.

Sherlock sat on the exposed mattress and stared into said void as it swallowed him up. His mind kept coming back with the phrases that have haunted him since he was a child. 'You're such a stupid idiot. This is what you do, drive people away. No one can stand you. In the end, they will always leave, because you're such a stupid freak." Over and over again, his mind plagued him with the cruel words that hurt him the most. And he allowed it, for he knew he deserved it now more than ever before.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

As time passed, Sherlock's attitude went from anger, to frustration, to apathy. Eventually, people just ignored him. He still solved crimes, but he just saved the long winded explanations for the official reports rather than waste his breath. He was actually being more civil with everyone, even Donovan and Anderson, much to everyone's great shock.

Sherlock had tried everything to try to find John and apologize. He exhausted his homeless network, and his brother simply refused to help him, even more adamantly than if he were asking for something else unrelated. In the end, he had to conclude that John had taken drastic measures to make sure their paths never crossed again.

One day, while Sherlock was walking towards a crime scene, he was lost within his mind palace, and didn't see Donovan coming the other direction until he bumped into her, causing her to drop her purse, scattering its contents. The old Sherlock would have walked away, but this Sherlock stayed and helped pick up the items, while mumbling his apology. One item was a book. It looked like a romance novel. He didn't know why but the cover struck a nerve with him. It was called "When Myth Meets Logic" by Nathaniel Nostaw. The names of the characters he read on the back were Hamish and something that started with a B. He had no interest in novels, let alone, ones of ridiculous romantic natures. Maybe he just felt nostalgic since John's middle name was Hamish. That must be it.

Except that he was seeing that book everywhere. Mrs. Hudson had a copy. One even resided on both Mycroft's and Lestrad's desk. He knew neither of them read romances on a regular basis, so there was obviously something about this one. It wasn't a bestseller, but most of the people he knew had one. This was what prompted him to get a copy of his own and actually start reading the blasted piece of fiction…

It seemed as though it was a retelling of "The Little Mermaid", just with male characters as lovers. But it was strangely more than that. It was eerily familiar. The human's name was Byron. That was his own middle name. Byron was a genius, and an outcast of society. Hamish was the odd one out, and one of the merfolk. And the events that played out were true mostly to the original tale, but more modern. The mermaid… merman in this case… saves the human's life, merman wants legs, and establishes contact with the human they saved. But instead of a happily woven tale of mutual attraction, it started to get rather dark. The affection becomes solely one sided, and the main character is left alone to cry in the dark at night.

What's interesting, is that the merman originally had trouble walking on his new legs, and needed a cane to stay steady. Until he met up with Byron who helped him realize he didn't need a cane to walk, because Byron gave him an excuse to run, chasing after some bad men.

Then came the confrontation.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** This is where we really jump into the middle of Little Mermaid Story. Sorry if there might be inconsistencies. The next couple of chapters will have a 'time lapse' and jump around to different areas of the 'novel'.

* * *

"Surely not _everything_ could be explained." Hamish tried.

"On the contrary. Where people think an almighty God created everything we see, was clearly the work of Super Novi. As such, every single thing has a reasonable scientific explanation. " Byron was looking down at his project on the table. He didn't even have the audacity to look Hamish in the eyes as they argued.

"But what about those who see ghosts or other strange phenomenon?"

"Clearly delusions. People see what they want to see, and will try to justify it. That's not science, that's fallacy, and I'll have nothing to do with it."

"But what about myths? They had to come from somewhere…"

"Are you hearing yourself, and are you even listening to me? Again, it's people's imaginations getting the better of them, and my mind is above all that nonsense."

"Then what if you came across something that you _couldn't_ explain?"

"Then I will dissect the mystery and study it, like I do with all of my various experiments."

"So no matter what, you'll never see anything as being miraculous?"

"Miracles are meant for the more simple minded."

Hamish didn't have anything to say to that. He wanted to come clean right then and there, despite the forbidden nature of it, but he knew he couldn't. This… man… will never think anything about magic. How could science possibly explain how his bone and muscle structure have been ripped apart and rearranged to form two perfectly functional legs overnight? "Would you ever think about the possibility of the impossible?" He tried.

"Those are best left to the theoretical departments, not mine."

"But what about…"

"Will you leave it Hamish!" Byron snapped. "Those issues hold no interest for me. I don't care about fanciful impossibilities. If science cannot explain it, it does not exist! Now if you don't mind, I need to concentrate!" With that, Byron went back to work, leaving the residue of an uncomfortable ambiance in the air. Hamish felt like he was suffocating, and as he slowly started to walk out of the room. He felt his legs lock up as they started to ache.

Hamish had to get out of the apartment. This was too much for him, and his lips were itching to form the forbidden explanations that he couldn't share. That would go over real well. 'Hello, by the way, I'm really a merman. Why do I have legs, you ask? Because I used forbidden magic in the hope that I would be the one you love till the end of time. But emotions are below you, aren't they. And as a result, this was an impossible waste of time, and either way, whether the legend is true, or by the hand of the law of my people, I'm going to _die_ '. This thought made him pause. No matter what happens now, he was going to die. What does one do in that situation? He didn't have long to ponder over it as he felt a bag go over his head. Try as he could to struggle, he lost strength quickly due to the fumes inside the material. In the end, he just gave in, because really, what was the point anymore?

* * *

Sherlock felt something as he read. He couldn't place the feelings. He decided to ignore them as he read on.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, would you look at that? The hydrophobic is simply surrounded by his worst nightmare. How on earth do you ever take a shower?" Xander mocked as Hamish looked frantically around. He was on a long board hovering over a large expanse of water. He was terrified, but not for the reasons these men thought. The man continued, "Oh, don't worry dear. I've brought you company. Looky here. Byron was getting all lonely." A few men pushed Byron in, and Hamish's heart turned to ice. They had hurt him. His face was scratched and bruised in several places and that was just what he could see on the surface. "The poor darling got a little too curious for our liking, and as they say, curiosity killed the cat." Byron was shoved onto the board where he collapsed in front of Hamish. "Looks like the two of you will sleep with the fishes, as they say."

Hamish reached down to pull him up as he looked at all the men who were pointing guns at them. There was no way out except…

"Byron. Hold on. I can get us out of here."

"I told you Hamish, I don't believe in miracles."

That pushed Hamish over the edge. Literally. He allowed himself to fall into the water, head first as he took Byron with him. He knew the gun shots weren't far behind, but the change he was waiting for didn't take long. Like a band-aid ripped off of a wound, he instantly felt his bones rearrange themselves into their proper order and as soon as he felt the strength of his mighty tale, he swam. Far and fast, never breaking the surface. The change hurt, but his broken heart hurt even more.

They both emerge out of the freezing water. Byron coughs and splutters on the air while Hamish holds him up. "Are you alright?" He asks.

After choking on a bit of water, Byron answers. "Fine… Just dandy. Where the _hell_ did you learn to swim like that? You could enter the Olympics. Why did you give me the impression you were afraid of the water?"

Hamish just looked down and let go of his hold. He didn't want to answer him. After a while, he gestured to the shore. "You should go and get back to the case."

"Quite right, and now that we have narrowly escaped our fate, I know just how they'll strike the next time." He was rattling all of this off, unaware that Hamish still hadn't moved from that spot. Finally, he registered the silence, and looked back at the man who still had his head down. "What's wrong? You weren't shot were you?" Hamish shook his head no. "Then come on out of there, before you catch your death. We must get back." He was about to turn back to his plan when he heard a few quiet words behind him.

"I'm not going back."

Not sure he heard right, he asked, "What?"

"I said I'm not going back. More like I _can't_ go back with you." He looked up into the confused eyes of the man he loved. "I have to leave."

Still not getting it, Byron said. "You're not making any sense."

Hamish stared at him, "This is goodbye. I can't be with you anymore."

"Wait, are you still angry about what I said earlier? We argue about things all the time. What's so different about our last argument."

"Aside from you flat out telling me that you will never believe in anything illogical, I have to go back home because I have now touched the water."

"That's a rather stupid thing to say, don't you think?"

Now Hamish was getting irritated. "It's only stupid to you, because you don't understand _anything!"_

That stung, "Oh really? Then pray tell what is it that I am not understanding? Be quick. I don't have time for this."

Hamish laughed bitterly. "Of course. And the last thing I want to do is waste your time. Then I will 'be quick' as you requested. A few weeks ago, you fell into the water, and you were thinking that you were going to die. Then you ended up safe and sound on shore. Alive and warm. I'll bet you just chalked that up to dumb luck. Well, the truth is that I'm the one who rescued you."

"Impossible, no one was around."

"Yet you didn't suffer from being in the freezing cold water, how do explain the logistics of that? It's true, no one was around… on the surface."

"So what, you were scuba diving in the area? Lucky me, thank you very much, can we go now?" He turns to walk away, but freezes at the next words.

"You wanted to die." Hamish says not looking at him.

Byron slowly turns around again.

"You were in pain. The kind of pain that breaks your heart, dashes your hopes, and leaves you in despair. You longed for understanding, companionship and to be loved." He cut Byron off before he interrupted. "Deny it all you want, but I felt all of your emotions concealed in one tear that you let fall into the water."

Byron kept silent. He still didn't know what was going on.

"Tears are very important to my people. When our feelings for another are strong, they solidify. But there is a legend that says if we were to ever cry 1000 tears out of heartbreak, then we will die. I empathized with your tear, and wanted to be the one to stay by your side. But your coldness and denial kept me at arms length all the time. I've cried for just about every night I've been with you. I haven't bothered to count them, but they are in a drawer. If the legend is true, then it would be better for me to die among my people. The last thing I want to be is an experiment on a cold slab. Dissected and studied, as you put it."

"What do you mean, what are you saying…"

Hamish interrupted him. "Keep the tears. I hear they are quite valuable. You can use them to pay my share of the rent, and you can experiment on those all you wish. Call it my parting gift to you." Hamish stepped backwards, but his feet should have left the ground at that distance, yet his torso was well out of the water. Byron was afraid to breathe. With a sad smile, Hamish bid him farewell. He then dove under the surface, but another part exited the water. It was a giant fin. It looked like a giant fish had swallowed him up. Byron couldn't even shout a warning. Yet there was no blood, no struggle, nothing. Just calm waters. He was afraid to blink. Just as his overbearing mind was about to overwhelm him with possible explanations, something jumped out of the water. Byron could tell even in the evening light, that it was Hamish. His torso was free of clothing, but his bottom half continued down to the fin he had seen earlier. Without the hindrance of the coat blocking his view, he could see that there was nothing separating the fin from Hamish. They were one and the same.

Just as quickly as he had come, he was gone. Byron continued to look out at the calm waters. His mind could not process what just happened. Then finally, as if his mind were settling his own argument, he heard his inner voice tell him, _The simplest solution is usually the correct one. Hamish Jones… is a merman…_

This impossible fact threw a wrench into the gears of his magnificent brain, and he couldn't think anymore. At his feet, a lump of fabric was being washed up onto the shore. Bending down, Byron could tell that it was Hamish's jacket. The one he was just wearing. He continued to look out towards the calm waters.

Byron didn't know how to go on. The answers were staring him in the face the whole time. And what has become of it? Nothing. Everything… Everything he thought he knew was now in question. He could either believe what he'd just seen, and accept all the other facts, but that just goes against his nature. On the other hand, he could run tests, and come up with a way to explain it.

Just then, he remembered what Hamish said, "I kept them in a drawer." What? Kept what? Without another thought, he ran up to Hamish's quiet room and started going through the drawers. One of them, he opened too violently, and a scattering of beads went all over the place. As he looked around, he noticed that they weren't beads, but pearls. Real pearls. All perfect. Quickly, he gathered them all up and brought them downstairs.

No matter what he thought, his brilliant mind could not fathom why there were so many. Were they tears, or was Hamish simply holding out on him? From what he knew of pearls, that was impossible. Their shape, iridescence, and size all suggest they should be extremely rare. From what he was looking at, it almost felt as though he was staring at a five-leaf clover. Impossible, yet here it is, the empirical proof. A single person could buy a country with their wealth. And Hamish just up and gives this fortune to him? Why?

Too many questions, not enough answers. He thought about everything that he had said before he disappeared.

* * *

Sherlock took a moment to think about the story. He couldn't help but feel the familiar chemistry between the two, and he couldn't deny that the human was true to his own form. He felt like he was looking through a mirror into a parallel world, and he could believe how he would react in the same situation. The doubt, the confusion, the wonder. He could understand this character completely. He continued.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Hamish was lying in a ball at the bottom of his glass prison. He didn't know how much time had gone by, and he didn't really care. He wasn't eating, and in truth, he just simply wanted Death to come and take him away. He heard the door open and close, but he paid it no mind. It was probably just one of the scientists who forgot something. He heard clambering onto the top, and thought they were just taking a reading of the water or about to feed him. Something fell alright, but it wasn't food. It was a pearl. One he knew to be his own. But it came from up top. Above him, he could see the distorted shape of a familiar being above him. It was definitely Byron.

Hamish raised to the surface to meet Byron on the top. "What are you doing here? You're going to get yourself killed!"

"I couldn't just leave you in the hands of that madman."

Hamish truly thought he was over Byron's impossible nature. But seeing him again made his heart jolt. He was still not sure what this meant with him being here. "It doesn't matter what happens now. I've been banished… by my own father. Hardly anyone looked at me kindly even before I came to the surface. I was too different. Where they were afraid, I was not. As such, I got a harpoon in the shoulder, forever marking me as the 'impure one'. Merfolk are a vain race, and I was an eyesore to everyone. I spent my time trying to find a new purpose to my existence, and I found it in you."

Hamish wasn't touching him, but he kept constant eye contact, trying to gauge Byron's reactions. It was now or never, all cards on the table. He went on, "Merfolk live to love one being, and one alone in their entire existence. When I felt your emotions in your tear, I felt someone who was like me. Looked down upon by my own kind, and isolated. I wanted to be near you, so I broke nearly every law of my people and consulted the forbidden arts for a way for me to walk on land. So long as I didn't touch a large expanse of water, I could stay for however long I wished." This is where he was getting worried, and he forced himself to continue, "You took away the pain in my legs. You gave me a reason to laugh again. And you are the most amazing man I've ever known. But the more I tried to get close to you, the more you pushed me away. It was then that I concluded that you will never want me the way I want to be with you. Even more so when you refused to believe in anything beyond what you can prove. What do you see when you look at me Byron? Do you see a freak of nature? Do you even see your old roommate anymore? Do you see a side show joke? Do you see a new specimen to dissect like these men want to do?"

Byron couldn't stand him talking like that. Finally letting go of the shields he's had all his life, he reached out to grab the back of Hamish's neck and pulled him into a kiss. The feeling was beyond anything he's ever felt before. Beyond the compatible 'chemistry' he's heard about. This was magnificent. And he will be damned if he allowed this to go away like everything else he cared about.

Hamish was at a loss for words. That feeling, that magical feeling of connection was what the sirens praised about. It's how you know you've found your one and only.

Byron pulled back and looked Hamish again. "I see a mystery. A fascinatingly beautiful mystery. And it's been staring me in the face since the beginning. If anyone's the freak of nature, it's me. Ask anyone. I don't let people get close to me, because in the end, they always leave. I gave up trying long ago. I didn't… couldn't believe in anything beyond facts. One and one is always two. And people will always leave. That was the fact. The day I fell into the water, I thought I had finally found the one who would stay. She was brilliant, beautiful, and smarter than me. Like a fool, I played into her hands, and I nearly died because of it. That's why I thought, 'Never again. Never ever again will I be that foolish.' And I was blinded in my resolve. You were the most fascinating mystery, and I completely disregarded it, because I never wanted to get close to anyone again. But when you left, and showed me what I failed to see, I had to rethink about our whole time together. The fact that I trusted my life to you instantly. The fact that you were not repulsed by any of my habits. The fact that we could laugh in the face of danger. Those are the facts. Everything else, I can take in stride. The fact that I felt empty and the apartment felt too silent after you were gone. The fact that I could not get you out of my mind and my dreams every day and night. And not to mention the utter fear I felt when I heard you were captured."

* * *

This is where Sherlock felt sick. For multiple reasons. Not only was this a cheesy confrontation, but he felt all the respect for the character go out the window. He forced himself to continue since he was clearly at the climax. It seems Byron knows his personal recipe for chemical explosives...

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

The bomb detonated, and the tank exploded. Byron escaped the blast, but Xander and his men were killed on impact. Whether from the explosion, or from the shards of glass heading their way. Byron climbed down the rope he was hanging from, and headed straight for the only figure in the room that mattered. He knelt down, and gently cradled the creature.

"No! No, this can't be happening. Hamish, please. Please open your eyes!" Hamish's eyes remained closed despite Byron's pleas. There were cuts everywhere from the shards of glass. Byron wished he could revel in the sheer beauty that Hamish was from top to tail, but he was more concerned with his condition.

Hamish felt very weak, yet warm. He knew who was holding him, and that thought alone made him happy. The darkness was calling to him, but he didn't want to leave just yet. With all of his might, he struggled to open his eyes. Byron looked so worried. It made Hamish happy that he could see some emotion in those normally blank eyes. It made him smile.

Byron watched as Hamish struggled to open his eyes. "Are you alright? What can I do? How do I stop your bleeding?" Byron was frantic.

It was no use. Byron could feel his life force slipping away. "It's too late my love. I'm dying. I've been dying since I left you…"

"No. Please. You know I don't believe in a God, but I'm willing to pray to anyone who will listen if it means you'll stay with me. There's got to be something!"

There was a way, but Hamish was still doubtful it would work. "Tell me Byron. Tell me what it is you want from me?"

Byron was confused, "I don't understand. I don't know what I want. I just want you to be there… with me…"

"How do you mean? I can't just go back to being your roommate. I showed you the depths of my devotion to you. Now I need to hear yours. It's important. I need to hear your true thoughts. Please."

Byron was close to tears. "I need you. I need you with me. If you never leave me, I'll do anything. There's so little of my heart left because there's such a big hole in it. Because of this, my emotions are usually locked deep inside. But you somehow bring them out. You bring out the best in me. And I don't want to lose you. Not ever. I want you to be the one to fill my heart and teach me what it means to believe in the impossible. I want to see the world through your eyes. And I want to become the man worthy of your affections. Please give me that chance."

Hamish did cry, but they weren't tears of heartbreak. They were tears of unbridled joy. "My body is dying. It cannot heal like it normally does." Byron looked terrified. "If I go with you, you can never break my heart. Understand? Otherwise, I will die. Slowly and painfully. It would be kinder to let me die now."

Byron was afraid, "I don't ever want to cause you pain, but it seems that's all I do to people. Please… I need you to teach me what it means to feel. That way I won't ever break your heart."

Hamish smiled at him. There was no going back now, and he knew this was going to be painful. He picked up one of the new pearls created from his tears, and put it in his mouth. He brought up Byron's injured hand and gently suckled on the wound, swallowing the pearl in the process.

Byron was speechless, and he felt a stirring in his nether regions that he knew was inappropriate for the time being. Before he could ask what he was doing, Hamish started to convulse. His muscles spasmed, and he kept himself from crying out. Byron continued to hold him as he watched Hamish's lower half break itself. He heard the sickening, crunching sounds of bones breaking and re-breaking as he watched the beautiful tale split into two new appendages. It looked downright painful. For a moment, Byron was afraid Hamish was not going to survive such a change. He just continued to hold him close until his body stopped writhing.

"Hamish? … Hamish!" Byron called out. Hamish was still bleeding, and his face was still contorted in pain. But the tears that streamed down his face no longer solidified. Byron brushed them aside, and held his face gently. "Hamish. What can I do? How can I take away your pain?"

He didn't hear an answer, but Byron felt a thought travel passed his conscious. He didn't question it, so he just acted. He leaned down, and gently brushed his lips against Byron's. He felt a heat in the pit of his stomach that he's never felt before. It traveled up through his chest, and seemed to flow through his kiss. The contact of their lips felt white hot, but he dared not release. He kept his eyes closed, for his vision was blinded by stars sparking across his sight.

All at once, the feeling vanished, and it left him with a refreshed feeling like his brain was flooded with rich oxygen. It was a natural high. He pulled back, and stopped breathing when he saw Hamish looking back at him. His eyes were clearer than he's ever seen them, and his face was relaxed. He looked radiant.

"I think it worked, Byron." Hamish said softly.

"What did? What did we just do?"

"I've given up my heritage as a merman, and bonded myself to you. I'm human now."

Byron was speechless. He looked down briefly to see that most of the deeper cuts were healed. "Incredible." He gently maneuvered out of his jacket and covered Hamish with it.

"I feel much better, but I'm still very weak. I won't be able to walk properly for a while." Hamish looked down, a little worried. "You may need to carry me out of here."

Byron wanted nothing more than to sweep this beautiful creature into his arms. So he did. Hamish gave an adorable little squeak, and a light blush stained his cheeks. 'Did he really think that would be a hardship for me?' Byron thought. He leaned in, and kissed the man's temple. He was looking forward to being able to do that just because he could, and whenever he wanted. "I'd carry you to the ends of the Earth, as they say. Now that I have you, I'm never letting you go. I hope that's agreeable to you." Byron smirked.

Hamish was beaming. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Byron's neck. "Take me home."

Byron held him close. "Of course, my Love."

* * *

Sherlock wondered if he had just wasted his time on this piece of… he was about to close the book when he caught an intriguing paragraph.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

_About the Author. Nathanial Nostaw  
_

 _The original story of The Little Mermaid was actually written to express the forbidden love that Hans Christian Anderson had for a man named Edvard Collins. Collins was disgusted by the idea that a man had romantic feelings for him so he rejected him on the spot and went off to marry a noble woman. Anderson presented a copy of the Little Mermaid as a wedding present to prove that the feelings were harmless but genuine. It was regarded as the longest gay love letter ever written. I recently lost a good friend of mine, and now that he's gone, I find myself wondering about all the things that could have happened. Most likely, I'm sure my affections would have been dismissed and unwanted like Anderson's was, but I feel that it is as real and genuine as he felt. Hence why I wanted to give a slight tribute to both the man in the same situation, as well as remember the man that has meant so much to me. Unlike Anderson's, I wanted to give Hamish and Byron a happy ending for the selfish reason that I myself am most likely never going to have one. My happy ending died with him, and in many ways, so did my happiness, and purpose in life as well. What is left for a man like that? A dream. A beautifully impossible dream._

* * *

Sherlock closed the book and put it down. The clock on the wall told him it was passed 5 in the morning. He decided to contemplate. There was no doubt in his mind as to who wrote the book. Nathanial Nostaw... a nom de plume. Nostaw… Watson. Nathanial… a play on Jonathan. Hamish, Byron, Xander… the middle names of himself, John, and James Alexander Moriarty. He looked at the printing date, and found that this book was published a little over a year after his fall. The Author's passage in the back didn't sit well with him. This was clearly written as a fantasy. The fantasy of a man who had nothing else to lose by revealing the true nature of his feelings. Aside from all the fantastical elements, the struggle was real. The events described, and the internal battle clear as day.

What could he conclude with this? John Watson wanted his own happy ending, in a way that he could control. That's the power of fiction. But that was the only happy ending he ever felt he'd ever get out of life. Most people get married, have kids, and enjoy the normal things in life. But John feels like he's too much of an outcast now. And a good part of that is Sherlock's fault.

'Now what, Sherlock?' He asked himself. He thought about what he read, _The fact that I trusted my life to you instantly. The fact that you were not repulsed by any of my habits. The fact that we could laugh in the face of danger. Those are the facts. Everything else, I can take in stride. The fact that I felt empty and the apartment felt too silent after you were gone._ All of that was certainly true. He wanted John back. Not the shadow… but his John. He had to try.

He didn't have to think long on where John might be. He knew where he would go, day after tomorrow. After all, John had been faithful enough to visit once a year, bringing flowers like any other mourner. He just hoped the pattern didn't change, now that John knew that no one lay beneath the ground.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was right to trust his instincts. He didn't have to wait long before John arrived at his empty grave. The man looked dreadful. Like all of the life had been sucked out of him. He placed the bouquet of flowers at the base like he normally did. From here, Sherlock could just barely make out their color and shape. If his knowledge of flowers was accurate, John always left Blue Diamonds. In the language of flowers, that meant _Eternal Love_. Another thing he failed to notice before. How long has it been like this? How long did Sherlock ignore John? Before as well as after his fall?

"Hello Sherlock." For a moment, Sherlock was afraid John knew he was there. "It feels strange talking to you now, when I know you're not really under there. But having thought about it, you're still the one who knows me best. After all, I've been coming here, telling you how I've been, and for once you actually listened to me. Now I find myself talking to an empty grave. Like a fool… always the fool. Remember when I said that I wanted to open the earth and curl up next to you? Well, seeing as how this area is empty, perhaps I could reserve it. They wouldn't even have to change the name on the headstone. That way, I would be the only one in the entire world… allowed to rest in Sherlock Holmes' embrace. After all, I mean, the actual Sherlock is back, and brilliant as ever. He doesn't need me. He said so himself. But you… as solitary as a stone, bearing the name of a great man who doesn't even reside where you stand. Where does that leave you?" John let out a heavy sigh and ran his fingers wearily through his hair. "Where does it leave me? I was the one who wanted a miracle. 'Don't be dead.' That's what I said. I got what I wanted, right? So why is it so hard for me to believe that everything will be alright?" He leaned down to caress the petals of the flowers, and sighed again. "Because I can't keep pretending. As such, I should stop pretending that a rock has feelings about being left alone. After all, the man doesn't care, so why should a rock that doesn't have emotions to begin with? And seeing as how there is no need to mourn, then I won't come back. Goodbye Sherlock."

As John turned to go, he came face to face with the very man he was pining for. Sherlock himself was speechless as he looked into John's eyes. John put his hands in his pockets and started to walk passed the figure. "Either you're a specter produced by my overactive imagination, or you're someone who is completely wasting their time."

Sherlock snapped out of his trance, and started to follow. "Speaking of overactive imaginations, would you care to explain why you wrote that novel?"

John didn't even need to guess as to what Sherlock was referring to, he just kept walking, "Therapy. A way to deal with grief. A means to an end. That's all."

"And the flowers on an empty grave? Blue Diamonds are not usually found in your typical florist shop, which means you've had to special order them. Which means…"

John turned around, cutting off his sentence. "Just get to the point Sherlock! You have all the evidence, and I refuse to give you any answers out of self-preservation. You detest sentiment, and that's all I seem to have in spades when it comes to you. I am the embodiment of sentiment, and as such I am the very thing you despise. So just tell me what you want, and leave me in peace!" He nearly shouted.

Sherlock had to think for a moment. What did he really want? Could he handle an overly sentimental John? Yes. More than that, he wants to see an overly sentimental John. He wants John. In any form. So long as he stays. "Tell me what I need to say, or do, in order to get you to stay."

John's face threatened to crumble. "I can't Sherlock. I can't just go back to the way things were, I can't be of any use. I just… can't" With that, he turned away before he started crying. He silently wished the man would just go. Every second was agony.

Sherlock came up behind him gently and spoke low. "Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see a mystery. A fascinatingly beautiful mystery. And it's been staring me in the face since the beginning. If anyone's the freak of nature, it's me. Ask anyone. I don't let people get close to me, because in the end, they always leave. I gave up trying long ago. I didn't… couldn't believe in anything beyond facts. One and one is always two. And people will always leave. That was the fact." Sherlock dared to come closer, almost whispering in his ear. "You are the most fascinating mystery, and I completely disregarded it, because I never wanted to get close to anyone. But when you left, and showed me what I failed to see, I had to rethink about our whole time together. The fact that I trusted my life to you instantly. The fact that you were not repulsed by any of my habits. The fact that we could laugh in the face of danger. Those are the facts. Everything else, I can take in stride. The fact that I felt empty and the apartment felt too silent after you were gone. The fact that I could not get you out of my mind. And not to mention the utter fear I feel if I watch you go away, and never come back."

John really was crying now, but he refused to turn around. Just then, he felt two strong arms envelope him. The deep voice in his ear gave him chills. "You know I don't believe in a God, but I'm willing to pray to anyone who will listen if it means you'll stay with me. I need you. I need you with me. If you never leave me, I'll do anything. There's so little of my heart left because there's such a big hole in it. Because of this, my emotions are usually locked deep inside. But you somehow bring them out. You bring out the best in me. And I don't want to lose you. Not ever. I want you to be the one to fill my heart and I want to see the world through your eyes. And I want to become the man worthy of your affections. Please give me that chance. I don't ever want to cause you pain, but it seems that's all I do to people. Please… I need you to teach me what it means to feel. That way I won't ever break your heart."

John wanted to believe, but he's known the man too long. He pulled himself from the embrace he so desperately craved. He let out a bitter laugh. "You can be very cruel Sherlock. You obviously overheard me at your so called grave, and you use the exact words I've always wanted to hear from you. I never thought you would even bother trying to read that dime store fluff. So is that how it's going to be from now on? You mock me with my own feelings just so that I stay close? Find someone else Sherlock. I'm done." He turned to leave again.

"John, I can't use my own words, because they make no sense. I used your words because they were the most accurate. I'm not mocking you. I really do need you. And not as a lapdog as you put it earlier. You make me feel normal. You make me feel like it's ok to be myself. You make me… FEEL! I said those things in the hospital because I missed how we used to be. Moreover, I missed you! The man who wasn't afraid to yell at me when I was wrong. The one who nags at me to eat a bit of toast. Yes, roaming the world would have been easier as a dead man, but they were constantly watching you. Any hint, any whisper telling you that I was alive, and I knew they would have killed you. I really did think that you would move on, get married, and leave me behind. One way or another. But that is a thought I cannot tolerate. Yes, I knew you wrote the book. And seeing as how that was the only item providing any answers to my real questions, I read it. From cover to cover. And I want my happy ending too! And the only way I can have it is with you there, by my side."

John kept on facing the other direction, and Sherlock could tell that he continued to cry. Sherlock moved closer, and spoke more softly. "You do know me better than anyone. I can't trust people when they claim to care about me. I end up driving everyone away. But you were so different. So very different. I could laugh, I could smile, and I could be myself. I've always wanted that. Could you imagine growing up with someone like Mycroft? All the other children spurned me, all of my teachers scorned me because I was smarter than them. My mother gave up trying to find me a tutor, and my father was ever non-existent. Lestrade only knows me, because I've pestered him for years before he actually consulted with me. I've been alone for so long, I've never even imagined the possibility that someone would actually stay. And now, I don't want to go back to the way things were before I met you. I can breathe around you. And you make me calm. Please John. Please believe me when I say that I do need you."

"As what?" John asked.

"Pardon?"

"You've read my book, you've overheard me, and you know about the flowers. I can't just come back to be a convenience for you. I tried. But I can't pretend anymore. You're married to your work. And I can't live with a married man who knows very well how I feel. To use my own words, 'I can't just go back to being your roommate. I showed you the depths of my devotion to you. My body is dying. It cannot heal like it normally does. If I go with you, you can never break my heart. Understand? Otherwise, I will die'."

Sherlock decided to do the most rash thing he's ever done. He wraps John into arms and kisses him gently, but firmly on the lips. Kissing a man should not have been this good, but he felt more excitement in that small contact than anything he's experienced with any other women he's tried to date. He released John's lips, but still held him close. He forced him to maintain eye contact. "I'm an excellent learner when I want to be. And I very much like the idea of being able to do that again. I'm only married to my work, because for as long as I could remember, no one else wanted to even consider the position. So, like with everyone else, I stopped trying. But you… I'd be willing to try. I want to learn, so long as it's you. I'm not nice, and I'm not considerate. You've known that for years. But if you're willing to give me a chance. I would be loyal to you until the very end. And I hope you'll tell me when I'm being a bit not good." He smirked.

John was still riding on a cloud from that simple kiss. "What if you get bored with me?"

Sherlock tightened his hold. "I don't really think that's possible. You've already proven yourself to be more surprising and daring than anyone I've ever met. And if I do end up hurting you, then I give you full permission to rid the flat of all my experiments, and even chuck the skull on the mantle in the trash."

John laughed, despite himself. You knew Sherlock was serious if he was mentioning even tampering with his experiments. It was just… so Sherlock. John couldn't help but find it adorable.

And they all lived Happily Ever After.


End file.
